


Neighbor

by xenoplush



Category: The Simpsons
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Deception, Episode Related, M/M, Mentions of Murder, hgagjagk I'm trying 2 think of relevant tags but this all i got, identity theft, moderate descriptions of violence, stalking behaviours
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-01-23 07:32:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12502132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xenoplush/pseuds/xenoplush
Summary: "He hadn’t meant to go this far. All he’d wanted to do was get Bart to trust him just enough to finally enable him an opportunity to end him, and yet here he was. He’d practically befriended the boy! Sure, this gave him ample opportunity to off him, or so one would think, but whenever he so much as considered killing Bart something would come and interrupt."An alternate shippy take to s21 e22 - "The Bob Next Door"





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mall blart whatever tf ur ao3 is](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=mall+blart+whatever+tf+ur+ao3+is).



> hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
> 
> Oh! if ur somehow here from my one other fic on this account, imma prioritise this shit first because FRIENDSHIP!!!111! aaaaaaa ohhh my god why am i alive hhhhhhhhh
> 
> anyway *finger guns* if ur actually here for the bort i swear the actual fucking thing is a slight bit better than my tired hands make it seem. i did actually try because im not a total shithead.
> 
> night y'all imma sleep then clean up this shit later when i can actually understand human language thanks bye

He hadn’t meant to go this far. All he’d wanted to do was get Bart to trust him just enough to finally enable him an opportunity to end him, and yet here he was. He’d practically befriended the boy! Sure, this gave him ample opportunity to off him, or so one would think, but whenever he so much as considered killing Bart something would come and interrupt. Take, for example,the time they went kayaking when he was certain the river he had chosen would be secluded, and yet the two of them had ended up spending the majority of the journey with none other than Officers Wiggin and Eddie. He was under the distinct impression they were supposed to be on duty, but one must digress. In another attempt he’d actually managed to poison Bart’s Krusty Burger, but just as the lad had poised to take a bite that infuriating little whelp Nelson had come up and smacked it out of his hands! After hearing a news report soon thereafter on a purported 'mass pigeon homicide' he'd resolved never to try poisoning again. Time and time again, he’d try to get rid of Bart to ultimately fail as some unforeseeable event ruined his every chance to off the boy. And so he was forced to spend time with Bart on a regular basis, desperately praying to all the powers that be to please give him this one chance to succeed so he could _just move on!_ His prayers were not just ignored, but _mocked_ as each time the interruptions grew more fantastical. Of all things, Krusty’s private jet crash-landing on the mountainside right next to them?! Really?!

Despite this, he knew he had to keep on trying. He’d spent countless days and nights planning for this, and it had grown to be an obsession. Every night was spent dreaming of the countless ways he’d like to murder Bart, whilst every day he’d concoct various schemes to perform the actual act. His obsession had even manifested itself physically, with his bedroom walls being seemingly overtaken by countless images of Bart, _Bart_ , **_Bart_**. He’d even made a crude little Bart doll which he’d occasionally stab with a few long pins. Sometimes he’d even talk to it, pretending it was the real Bart as he paused his act and ranted to him about how _hard_ he was to kill and did he think this plan would finally succeed? Of course it would, no need for an answer. When he grew truly enraged, he’d occasionally rip off one or two of Bart’s limbs, but he’d always apologise for the rough treatment and sew them back on later.

Swinging Bart about by his left leg, he glanced at the calendar. On today’s date he’d merely written ‘SURPRISE’. This clearly must have meant something to his past, sleep-deprived - and possibly manic - self, but he currently couldn’t fathom what it possibly meant. Absently playing with Bart’s left button eye, which was now hanging freely from his head, he contemplated all the possible meanings. A surprise gift, maybe? No, far too simplistic. He could easily have done that from prison, what with how low the security was there. It really was appalling. Perhaps he’d meant to take Bart on a surprise trip somewhere? But where? If it was that important, he’d surely have left himself a more meaningful note. It didn’t matter, anyway. Today was a Saturday, and Bart would be expecting him. Saturdays were _their_ days.

First, he’d have to get ready. Tossing the Bart doll aside, he went to the bathroom mirror and lifted his hair, checking all the stitching that connected this… _unfortunate_ face to his head. It was holding well. Good. The wounds had actually healed quite a bit, as pieces of the scabs that outlined his face were starting to peel off, revealing pale patches of fresh skin. Soon the wounds would fully heal and the face would, for all intents and purposes, become his. The thought was quite unnerving; this plan wasn’t supposed to be so long-term. He shook his head, and resolved to complete his morning preparations. It didn’t take too long. ‘Walt Warren’ was a simple man.

He plastered a grin on his face as he stepped outside into the warm, welcoming air of Springfield. Turning around, his grin only widened as he took in the sight of the Simpsons’ household.


	2. An Unfortunate Decision

He knocked upon the signature salmon door of the household. After a few minutes the door opened to a frazzled Marge, her hair straying from its usual beehive in favour of almost comically leaning to the left, with a number of rebellious strands sticking out in various directions. Bob let his grin fade, putting on a more concerned look. "Marge, dear, are you quite alright?"

Marge gave him a slightly strained smile. "I'm sorry Walt it's just-" a crash sounded behind her, and her eye subtly twitched. He could hear Lisa screeching Bart's name, causing him to raise a brow. "I know you've come to take Bart out but he's being a bit troublesome right now, and I really wouldn't want to inconvenience you."

"Oh no!" Bob exclaimed, then inwardly cringed at just how desperate he sounded. He lowered his voice and continued, "I'm sure all he needs is a little time away from home. You know what boys can be like; a day out will surely make him easier to deal with." Marge still looked concerned so he added "It would be no trouble at all, really." He inwardly cursed as her expression didn't change, but soon she grumbled and looked back into her house, before looking back at Bob.

"If you're sure..."

His grin came back full force. "Excellent! I'm ready to go whenever he is." Hands pressed together in glee, he waited as Marge returned inside to bring Bart out. The boy strolled out clad in his usual ensemble, with the addition of a baseball cap that he was wearing backwards. God, how he despised that trend. "Ready to go, Bart?" He asked amiably. Bart simply walked ahead of him, a bored expression on his face.

"Let's blow this joint."

Bob rolled his eyes at this, and in a few strides caught up to Bart. He brought out his car keys and pressed the 'unlock' button. Bart opened the passenger side door and threw himself onto the seat, then slammed the door shut. Taking a moment to lament over Bart's mistreatment of his car, Bob opened the driver's side and sat down, putting on his seatbelt before gently but firmly shutting the door.

"Forgetting something, Bart?" He gave the youth a pointed look.

"Nope." The boy replied with just a hint of mischief in his voice, arms folded and a smirk on his face. He really was going to be difficult today. With an overdramatic sigh, he swivelled Bart's cap around so he was wearing it properly, then leaned over and fastened his seatbelt. Bart crossed his arms more tightly and slouched further into his seat, but said nothing. Silently, Bob started the car and drove onto the road.

"So, is there anywhere you wanted to go?" He glanced into the rear view mirror to see Bart's response, but the boy just shrugged and looked out of the window. Bob let out a long breath and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. Where to go, where to go? Somewhere secluded would be best, but the boy just looked so damn miserable! How was he supposed to properly enjoy killing Bart when he looked so down? No. He wanted to see the light slowly drain from his eyes, and the look of horror on his face as he realised that he was indeed Robert Terwilliger, back to wreak vengeance upon the boy who had ruined his life many times over. Victory wouldn't be as sweet unless achieved when Bart was at his very best. So, he decided where he would take Bart.

The ride passed quietly with nary a word between the two, which was rather disconcerting considering just who his passenger was. Nevertheless, they made it to the dreaded establishment which would surely cheer Bart up. Krusty Burger. The place served not only as a reminder of the man who had belittled and abused him for amusement throughout his television career, but also as one of just how far American society had fallen over the years.

Parking in the lot, he mentally prepared himself to consume the disgusting slop they served once more. The sacrifices he'd made... Putting on a faint smile so as to reassure Bart, he exited the vehicle and opened the passenger's side. The boy begrudgingly made his way out of the car, and the two entered the (barely classifiable as such) 'restaurant'. By now he'd memorised Bart's usual order, but he still asked what he wanted in case he decided to change it up a bit. The boy shrugged, so he got him the usual Krusty Burger with bacon (extra cost), fries, and a Krusty Shake. He then looked back at Bart, and decide to add a Krusty Cake (undoubtedly filled with artificial preservatives and flavourings) in hopes of cheering him up. For himself he got a regular Krusty Meal with a diet coke. He always bought himself one of these abhorrent meals when they went to Krusty Burger's to maintain his cover. Of course, he would also always eat as little as possible, not wanting to contaminate his body with too much of the stuff.

After a few minutes their food was ready. _Fresh from the hot lamps_ , Bob mused, putting on yet another fake smile as he thanked the cashier and picked up the trays of ‘food’. While waiting he’d told Bart to go on ahead and pick a seat and, glancing about the room, he could see that he’d chosen a corner booth in a less populated area of the restaurant. At least he wouldn’t be forced to watch other patrons disembowel their food as he attempted to digest the filth himself. _Be thankful for the small things, Robert._ Making his way through the maze of tables with ease, stopping on the way to pick up a handful of ketchup sachets, he put both trays down on the table and sat on the couch seat adjacent to Bart. He died a little inside when he felt his left hand touch _something_ just next to where he sat. He shuddered and felt his face twist in disgust but with great effort managed to school his expression, focusing himself on the motion of repeatedly wiping his hand on his trouser leg. Still feeling rather unclean (and slightly nauseous), he looked to Bart, who was currently playing with his fries.

“Bart,” he started. The boy didn’t look up. He sighed, but pressed on, “If something’s the matter, you can tell me. I’m here for you.” His offer of aid was lamentably generic, but hopefully it wouldn’t be too much of an issue. The silence after this indicated otherwise, and just as Bob was about to give up on receiving any semblance of a reply, the boy looked up. Startled, he straightened immediately and gave Bart the most sympathetic expression he could muster.

“You have to promise not to tell anyone.”

Now _that_ piqued his interest. Ensuring his voice practically dripped with sincerity, he said “Of course, Bart.” He would have placed his hand over his heart, but thought better of it. Exaggerated performances were often less believable. Instead, he casually sipped at his coke and waited for him to continue.

“I heard Sideshow Bob got out of prison.”

 _Careful, Robert, careful. Don’t react._ He swallowed the coke along with the lump in his throat and his eyes carefully met Bart’s.

“Sideshow Bob?” he asked mildly, placing his hands on his lap.

Walt wasn’t from Springfield, so it’d make sense for him to be ignorant.

Bart shifted a little in his seat, “He used to work on Krusty’s show.”

“Ah yes, I believe I’ve heard of him.” The fact that he was still most associated as a lackey of that clown embittered him. “Wasn’t he involved in some sort of scandal?”

Bart nodded, and leaned in conspiratorially, “He tried to frame Krusty for robbery, but luckily me and Lisa managed to clear his name. Sideshow Bob hated me after that. He’s tried to kill me at least five times already!”

It was more than five times. He’d made so many more attempts. So. Many. More.

“Why, Bart, that’s just awful!” That was the average person’s reaction to attempted murder, right? Perhaps he was underplaying it. He put his hands on the table, within Bart’s reach, and spoke in a low voice. “Bart, would you like me to call the police?”

Bart laughed out loud. “They’re useless.” Well, there was at least one thing they could agree on. Then, he realised the opportunity he had.

“Bart, I have a proposal for you.” He heard a giggle and something that suspiciously sounded like ‘gay’, but continued “We’d have to check with your parents and the police first, but you could stay with me until the police have apprehended ‘Sideshow Bob’. I doubt he’d suspect you were in another house, and by the time he’d realise the police will have already been called. So, what do you say?”

“Awesome.” Bart grinned, and Bob felt a smile make its way onto his face, too. ‘Awesome’ indeed. It seemed that Bart fully trusted him now. This would be it, the moment he’d been waiting for! Of course, Bart’s parents and the police themselves may be harder to convince.

 

* * *

 

 

“Leave my son to live alone with a man I barely know for at least a week? That sounds like a great idea!” Ah. He’d failed to account for Homer’s idiocy. Marge certainly showed more concern, but all the weekends he’d spent with Bart without incident had clearly led her to trust him at least somewhat, for she didn’t protest to the situation. For now, at least. Chief Wiggum was similarly naïve, and also immediately agreed to the idea. Seeing again just how incompetent his opponents were made all his previous failures that much more humiliating. It really shouldn’t be so difficult for him to kill this _one_ boy. No time to dwell on the past. His moment would come.

“See you tomorrow, Bart.” He waved to the boy as he went. The boy’s night would likely consist of packing spare clothes to prepare for his stay at 740 Evergreen Terrace. His own preparations would be different, and much more time-consuming. He’d have to remove all things Bart from his bedroom.

Only upon being presented the task of clearing his room did he realise how much _Bart_ was in his room. His room resembled that of a fanatic teenager, but instead of various band posters and such, his walls were covered in various pictures of Bart, from all types of sources. Candid photos he’d taken of Bart from the bushes, clippings from newspapers, social media, anything he’d been able to get his hands on. On reflection, these images didn’t serve any real purpose. The photos he’d taken could barely qualify as justified for surveillance (all he had to do was look out of the window to spy on the boy, for Pete’s sake!) and the other images were even less justifiable. Irritated, he tore the closest picture off the wall. Glaring at the blank wall it’d formerly occupied, he took the time to study the photo he’d picked up. Oh. It was a newer picture. One he’d actually taken with Bart’s knowledge. He’d actually meant to take the photo after he pushed Bart off the cliff – to commemorate the event – but some tourists had come by, and so he’d just had to ordinary pictures of the boy. In this one he was in a rather idiotic pose, crouched down with hands forming some form of gang sign. He’d actually rather enjoyed that outing. They’d gone on a rather pleasant stroll and he’d had the opportunity to examine the little nature Springfield had. Additionally, he’d gotten to watch and laugh as Bart, not looking where he was going, fell into a mud puddle. His laughter had abruptly stopped when the boy flung mud at him, and the two resorted to a childish mud fight. He’d never admit it to anyone, but sometimes it was nice to ‘let loose’, so to speak. He shook his head. He was getting distracted.

First order of business, remove all the images from the wall. He didn’t tear any of the other from the wall, as it had taken a lot of time (and paper) to get the entire collection printed. Waste not, want not. There was no system to how he’d arranged the pictures. Each was just attached to the wall as soon as it was produced, often hastily as he’d rarely produce one image at a time. Unfortunately, he’d used tacks to place the images on the wall, meaning he’d have to remove each individual tack from the wall instead of just peeling it off like he could have done had he used blu-tack or some other form of adhesive. The tacks _did_ appeal to his sense of aesthetics, though. At least he was alone, so the task didn’t have to be too dull. Humming Gilbert and Sullivan under his breath certainly made the time seem to pass more quickly, and he was happy to see his walls bare. It did feel a bit odd after all the weeks he’d spent in the room with the pictures to keep him company, but he’d manage. Dragging a large leather suitcase out from under his bed, he placed the neatly piled images inside, then shut it. For caution’s sake, he put a lock on the opening, and tossed the key in his bedside cabinet drawer. Gathering up the numerous tacks, he looked around for something to put them in. Failing to find any sort of appropriate holder for them, he took out a transparent plastic cup and poured them in, which he then put on the kitchen side. With a sigh of relief, he headed to the bathroom to prepare for bed, but stopped. The Bart doll was still on his bed from when he’d thrown it aside this morning. He’d already locked the suitcase and positioned it neatly under his bed again, which wasn’t something he cared to repeat for just one item at this time. Besides, Bart would be coming by later tomorrow. He could easily sort it out before then. Whilst he wasn’t here he may as well keep the doll out. He enjoyed its company.

After using the loo, washing his hands, showering, and brushing his teeth, he changed into his pyjamas. Switching off the lights, he retreated to his bed and pulled up the covers. He closed his eyes and rested. However, his body refused to answer the call of sleep. The thought of the perfect opportunity he’d have to kill Bart caused his mind to frantically race. In his own home there were so many ways he could end Bart. The classic stabbing, which felt rather fitting considering that was usually how he threatened Bart, or perhaps he could make use of the power tools he’d been gifted when he’d moved in. He could get inventive. There were so many instruments of death, which to choose? The fact that Bart would be there long enough for him to actually make up his mind on the matter was even more exciting. Maybe he could drag his death out, make it slow and painful to repay him for all the suffering he’d caused. Regardless of his methods, victory would be sweet. He rolled over in his bed, and grimaced as he felt a lump in his back. Ah, the Bart doll. He hadn’t moved it after deciding to leave it out. Rolling off of the doll, he grabbed it and held it tightly. His grip tightened as he considered even more painful fates he could make Bart suffer. Electrocution, acid, he could get his hands on practically anything given his connections. Smiling, he began to drift off with one last though; _Bart Simpson will suffer_.


	3. Settling In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was planning on writing the events following this chapter in this chapter but y'all have waited long enough so... yeah. Hopefully the next update won't take as long x_x

A shrill ringing filled his ears. Groaning, he blindly reached out towards his bedside cabinet and groped around d for his alarm. Unable to find it, he blearily sat up and put a hand to his head. Letting out an irritated grumble, he glared at the alarm clock which smugly sat at the far end of the cabinet. Reigning in the urge to hurl it across the room, he turned off the alarm and got out of bed. He'd set his alarm for 08:00 each day, which actually only left him with a little time until Bart's arrival. Luckily, he didn't need much time. All he'd be doing were his usual morning preparations and a spot of spring cleaning.

Once his teeth were brushed he checked his face again. Still holding up well. He gently rubbed the scabbier areas with his facecloth, and winced as some pieces fell off. New pink skin appeared in the areas formerly occupied by scabs. _I hope it won't be too hard to put my own face back on_. Brushing away the scabs that had gathered on his collar, he went to his supply closet and retrieved a small feather duster, which he lightly ran over each and every surface. Once that task was complete, he produced a can of air freshener from under his sink. Shake, shake. Spray. Shake, shake. Spray. He repeated this process in every room until the scent of fresh linen filled the house. Such a pleasant yet unassuming smell. With a hum of satisfaction, he surveyed the house. Each room was in perfect order. He checked the clock adorning the lounge wall. 8:27 a.m. Only three minutes until Bart arrived. He snapped his fingers, then returned to the bedroom. "Can't forget about you." He lifted the Bart doll in both hands and gazed at it affectionately for a moment. Then he opened the drawer on his bedside cabinet and tossed it inside. Locking the drawer, he chuckled, "Don't want you blowing my cover now, do we?" That sorted, he shoved the key into his back pocket, and went to the door. After a few seconds of silence, the doorbell rang. Right on time. He opened the door.

“Hello, Marge. _Bart_.”

Marge gave him a nervous smile. The boy himself was wearing a black hoodie, hood up, some blue jeans (fortunately _not_ ripped) and a pair of scuffed up sneakers. He was looking from side to side, holding his hood closely to his face. Marge handed him a large bag which presumably contained Bart’s belongings. Placing her hands on his shoulders, Marge worriedly fussed over Bart, reminding him to ‘wash behind his ears’ and to ‘not forget to brush his teeth twice a day’ as well as to call her ‘whenever he needed to’. After a while of Bart repeatedly telling her to ‘stop embarrassing him’ and that yes, he would be fine, Marge finally relented. She looked to Bob and said, “If anything happens, you’ll call me, right?”

“Of course. And don’t worry, if you ever feel the need you can always pop in and visit. After all, we’re only next door.”

With a relieved sigh, she checked over Bart a few more times and gave him a kiss on the cheek. As he rubbed his face, Marge said “Bye sweetie! Have fun at Walt’s!”

“ _Oh, he will…_ ” Bob said with a sinister smile, then he shut the door. Turning around, his tone became amiable once more. “So Bart, should we get settled in?”

Bart jumped back onto the sofa. “Sure. Which room is mine?”

“You’ll have to sleep on the couch, I’m afraid.” He paused and thought for a moment. “Or I suppose I could set up a spare bed in my room. It’s your choice.” He could have offered to sleep on the couch himself, but he was only willing to go so far to be accommodating.

Bart sank back into the sofa as he thought. Bob casually leaned against the front door as he awaited an answer.

“Can I see the spare bed?”

Bob, who had become lost in thought, startled, but quickly regained himself and gave an ‘of course’ before opening the door and heading outside. Opening the shed, he began to move towards its back. **_Thwack_**. “ _You!”_ he yelled, and grabbed the wooden pole that had just assaulted his face. “I thought I’d disposed of all _your_ kind.” he grumbled as he thrust the rake aside. Giving the rake one last glare, he moved onward and reached the folded-up structure of the spare bed. Taking a hold of its frame, he battled to get it out of the shed’s cramped interior. Propping the frame up against the she’d outside wall, he wiped his brow then turned to the rake once more. “Now to deal with _you_.” Watching his footing, he drew closer to the rake then, with a victorious cry, seized the rake in both hands and escorted it out the shed. Brandishing it above his head, he led it to the front of the house. Pausing briefly in his dramatics to open the trash can, he gave a laugh of glee as he tossed the wretched thing into the filthy metal cylinder. The bin fell to the ground. Luckily it had been otherwise empty, but it still rather ruined the moment. Groaning, he realised the rake wouldn’t even stand in the bin, so after up righting it he left the rake to the side and muttered “You win this round…” Briefly dusting himself off, he turned back to the house. Where Bart was watching him through the window. He flushed a little, and gave the boy a sheepish smile. Avoiding any further eye contact he went back to the shed and retrieved the bed frame. Bringing it inside, he put it in the lounge and crouched to set about preparing it. He felt Bart’s gaze on his back. Turning his head slightly in Bart’s direction, he innocently asked what was the matter.

“Why did you go all Rambo on that rake?”

_Why did he have to ask that? Quickly now, think of a plausible reason –_ “My father died in a freak gardening accident.” _Yes, how very plausible. Well, let’s just run with that then._

“Uh…” From the corner of his eye he could see the boy swallow. “I’m er- sorry for your loss.” He sounded highly uncomfortable. “If you don’t mind me asking, what happened?”

“Well, he stepped on a rake and it ended up knocking him back into the lawnmower he’d left on.” His face pinched. “My mother could barely identify the body.” _What the hell was that!? **Krusty** could have done better! Oh, Bart was never going to believe his story. Why, he might as well hand himself in to the cops now!_ Engrossed within his thoughts, he neglected to notice just how his face had twisted. Therefore, it was a surprise when he felt a small hand on his shoulder. He bolted upright and gave Bart a confused, and slightly affronted, look. The boy took a step back and apologised, then stepped further back to the couch and sat on its edge.

“I’m sorry I-“

“Oh, no no, it’s fine I just didn’t expect… Never mind.” He coughed into his fist. “Let’s see about that bed, shall we?” Retreating to a storage cupboard within his room, he returned with a slightly worn-looking mattress. He placed it upon the metal frame of the spare bed. It fit well, if one ignored how it was slightly too wide, and how it was at _least_ ten centimetres too short and... Okay, it didn’t fit well at all. Bart eyed the bed suspiciously. “Is that safe?” His tone was deadpan, the question barely such. Bob looked at the bed himself. Hesitantly, he pushed down upon the mattress. Nothing happened, which he took as a good sign. Bracing himself, he then sat on the bed. It creaked, but remained stable. Finally, he laid down upon it. It didn’t collapse. Success!

Getting off the bed, he motioned for Bart to try. Apparently seeing Bob use it had emboldened him, as the boy leapt onto the bed. There was a metallic clang and they both froze, wide-eyed. After a while had passed and the bed still remained standing, they both gave a sigh of relief. Bart settled down on the bed, then went to the couch and laid down on that. He went back to the bed. Then back to the couch. Upon having repeated this process a few times, he spoke up “I’ll take the bed.” Bob nodded and disassembled the bed before heading to his room to set it up in there. After a while of fussing with the thing to once more be sure that it wouldn’t end up killing someone (that was his job, after all), he returned to the lounge and fixed Bart with a grin. “So, Bart, what would you like to do today? It _is_ still the weekend after all.” Bart just shrugged. _Uncooperative little -!_

“I’d rather lay low so Bob can’t find me.”

He couldn’t kill him if he stayed here. “Moving about will surely _decrease_ the chances of Bob discovering your location.” Bart just looked at him. Defensively, he stated “It’s statistics!” Bart’s expression didn’t change. “… Besides, you shouldn’t let this ‘Bob’ character control your life. If he does end up finding us, I’ll engage him whilst you get help.” Crouching to Bart’s level, he made a small ‘x’ motion over his chest. “Cross my heart.” Bart rolled his eyes and Bob smiled. Preparing to stand up, he was interrupted by Bart’s words. “Why are you doing this?”

Remaining crouched, he questioned “Doing what?”

“Letting me stay in your house. Offering to _protect_ me. You’re just my neighbour, you don’t have to be going this far to help me.”

“Well, Bart to be honest… I rather consider you a friend. And friends help each other out when the need arises.” He looked down to avoid Bart’s scrutiny.

“ _You_ consider _me_ a friend?”

“… Yes.”

“But you’re like, five times my age!”

His eyes darted back to Bart’s. Oof, that really hurt. Resisting the urge to correct him, he stated “Regardless, I feel we have a connection. Of course, I don’t expect you to feel the same way –“

Bart mumbled something under his breath. Bob immediately paused. “What was that?” Fingers tensely gripping the material of his trousers, he held in his breath as Bart looked down and, barely audible, said “Yeah. I like you too. I’d like to be friends.” **_Ka-thump_**. He exhaled. **_Ka-thump._** Shakily, he stood up. **_Ka-thump_**. “I’m glad you feel that way.” There was a period of silence, in which Bob tried to calm himself. Scowling at his lack of self-control, he attempted to shift his thoughts to something else. Coffee. Theatre. _Vengeance._ Taking Bart to the woods and stabbing him; leaving his body there. Suffocating him as he slept. Yes, these were good thoughts. Safe thoughts. He smiled a little, then realised Bart was staring at him once more.

“I was just thinking of that awful Sideshow Bob. I can’t wait for him to be incarcerated.” The boy slowly nodded but seemed perturbed. “What is it, Bart?”

“I’m not sure I want to involve you in this. What if Sideshow Bob decides to go after you, too? The next time he escapes he’ll hunt us both down.” Bart was _concerned_ for him. It was ironic but also, God forbid, sort of sweet.

“Now Bart, that’s no way to think. I’m sure that I can handle some washed-up clown’s sidekick. And he’s not going to escape again. The police will make sure to reinforce his cell.” Obviously he was just spouting lies. The Springfield Police never learnt from their mistakes, as evidenced by the sheer number of times he had escaped, or even simply been let out of, jail. His words seemed to assuage Bart’s fears despite this. The subject was promptly dropped.

“So, what would you like to do today Bart? It is still the weekend, after all!” His false enthusiasm dimmed a bit after the boy shrugged. “Come on, let’s not be layabouts. Surely there’s something you want to do today.”

“Well…”

“Yes?”

“Zombie Terror Night 3 is out in the cinemas and-“

“Absolutely not. Nobody should be subjected to that sort of _vile, mindless trash_ , and I won’t support the creation of such things.”

“Wow, Walt.” He raised a brow at the boy. “And you say you consider me a _friend_. What sort of friend would just crush their pal’s hopes and dreams like that?”

His brow fell. “Oh please,” he scoffed “that routine isn’t going to work with me.”

“But-“

“No.”

“C’mooon.” he drew out, “I’ll do whatever you want afterwards.” He crossed his arms. “Don’t make me beg.”

_Anything. Now that was an offer and a half._ Putting his finger to his chin, he murmured “I don’t know…” _Oh he was absolutely taking him up on that offer._ He glanced to Bart, whose eyes were fixed on him with an almost hopeful look. He let out a breath. “Fine.” He held up a finger, interrupting Bart’s fist pump “But,” the boy groaned “You have to abide by your promise.”

“Yeah, fine, whatever. Let’s just go! If we hurry we can make it in time for the next showing.”

Allowing himself to be dragged out of the house, Bob pondered how he could best take advantage of Bart’s promise. Bart shouted, breaking him out of his thoughts. It was fine, though. He’d have plenty of time to think up some form of plan during the showing of that god-awful ‘movie’.


End file.
